Eternal Refrain — a poem About Michael Jackson

Today would have been Michael Jackson’s 62nd birthday. I wrote Eternal Refrain in 2009, shortly after his passing, but I am sharing this for the first time here in the strange days of 2020. Often cited as the greatest entertainer of all time, he of course meant something different to each of us. This was my attempt to capture why Michael Jackson is important to me.

I tried to paint a picture of what sparked to life inside of me when I first saw Michael Jackson, to pay tribute to his own idols without which his artistry would not have existed, to lift up the parts of him that are degraded and over-analyzed… to express the pain that I felt on the day that he died, to explain how his music still heals and comforts me… and finally, to immortalize MJ’s message and his legacy which all his fans and loved ones try hard to carry forth in his absence.

Did Michael Jackson write his own lyrics? Yes. Did Michael Jackson write poems? Yes! I would never have become a writer without his direct influence. There are many, many references to Michael Jackson lyrics and song titles within the work below, similar to my Dream Maker poem in tribute to Janet Jackson. Those are the little gems that the hardcore fans will catch and appreciate.

You’re truly missed, MJ. May your music live on forever. 🖤

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Eternal Refrain

You moved the world
long before you lit Billie Jean's sidewalks,
but in my life, that was when you were born.
You were artistry itself—God's shifting kinetic sculpture
that flamed and flared; turned the dark to daylight.
Pink shirt, red bow tie, shiny suit, sleeves rolled high.
A dance the world had never seen before
drew youthful eyes and captivated mine.
You were crafted after Gene Kelly and Fred Astaire
who danced down avenues prior;
after Jackie Wilson and James Brown
who set the stage on fire.
But you were so much more electrified,
your phantom voltage cranked so high.
No other human could contain the current,
but you played it like an instrument
and further shifted the pitch
to reach higher and higher octaves.
Exponential electric potential. Explosive.
Your pioneers expressed their gift.
You emulated, then brilliantly changed it.
I believe you, Michael Jackson, were the greatest.

Your art transcended the music.
You searched for a childhood
that went missing far too soon,
removing traces of years and ages
to become the grown-up kid that I knew.
You created an ageless Neverland—
a world that mimicked your inner landscape—
a place you thought no one could steal.
You crafted your life, your form, your features.
They called you bizarre; a freak of a creature.
The truth is: You were their mirror.
A greedy audience interpreted you to be
the epitome of eccentricity.
They said you were too different;
said they didn't understand.
Behind the gates you smiled,
knowing there was more to life
than normalcy and conformity;
that you were the artist and the art itself...
that they were only mocking the parts
that they despised in themselves.

Word of your death came wirelessly on the ether,
taking me down long before it was broadcast on the air.
On a day filled with music, the source of the song was ripped away.
Without being told, and before I could know,
I could sense the spiritual silence—the difference of the day.
The artist of escapism had finally escaped his burdens,
sadly freeing me from my rapt captivity;
the lost child who wished so hard for home
had found his way back and left me alone.
I spent the infinite summer choking back thunderous oceans.
I joined the masses that danced, and cried, in the streets.
Now I'm half kneeling, half collapsed upon your grave,
the etchings obscured by teardrops and moondust.
The spotlight so glaring, I can barely read your name;
the air so thick with a lifetime of now relinquished pain.
I miss and mourn you; serenade and salute you.
Alone at your tomb, I both applaud and cry for you.

I sense your observant stare, feel a hesitant gloved touch,
hear the choirs housed within lungs that no longer breathe.
I am aware of your simultaneous absence and presence,
of the force with so much power that even death can't stop it.
The madness in your music got to me and I'm still gripped,
spinning mindlessly until you and I burn every dancefloor out.
But the lights come on, the thrill dies down,
and these two dancers can't stay in the round.
I return to my room and fall asleep within the silence,
but melodic memories soon awaken me.
It's your haunting song and the eternal refrain
about loving too quietly and learning too late.
Your voice shakes my walls and breaks my windows.
I look through the shards with awe and sorrow.
I see the sky, surreal and sequined,
see the moon walk across the clouds.
It's clear even with blurry eyes and a breaking heart
that the heavens now hold one too many stars.

I long to be where you are—anywhere and everywhere you are—
on yellow bricks, glowing streets, or far above the world we see.
But I recall your words: This separateness is an illusion of perception.
I'm not left in this soundless void to bide my time;
to listen idly for the emergence of someone else's gift;
to be trapped in a mind filled with whys and what ifs.
While I may remain static, time will not wait.
I'm meant to carry your light throughout my days—
to heal this world and make those changes;
to spread your music and your message;
to catch that legacy and continue it.